


Lunch Rush

by lizardwriter



Category: Carmilla - All Media Types
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-05 02:32:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6685717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizardwriter/pseuds/lizardwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Café AU - Carmilla's working the register at the lunch rush, dealing with all the types of customers she hates. Good thing there's a little eye candy in the queue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lunch Rush

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO GABI AND KAITLYN! (I hope you two don't mind sharing a present.) 
> 
> This is just a oneshot to the best of my knowledge right now, even though it has potential to more. I don't have time to write the other ongoing stories I want to, so I don't want to add this to them. Unbeta'd so all errors are mine.

You hate people who pay all in coins.

Okay, to be honest, you hate all the customers. You are not a person who should be working retail in any way shape or form. You usually do your best to work with the food rather than the idiots who never bother to look at the stupid menu before they’re actively standing in front of the register and holding up the line even more than the person before them did, but then Marcie found out that you’re at least competent enough to WORK the new registers, which is more than Kirsch was, so it was a plea of “Carmilla you’re the best worker I have”, a promise of a raise, and here you are, staring down the ever-growing queue of impatient people who all believe that their time is more valuable than that of everyone else around them.

Okay, perhaps a more accurate description would be to say that you just hate people. Really. Almost all of them.

“Three dollars and fifty-five cents,” the woman in front of you counts out. The nickel clinks onto the counter, adding to the growing pile that you’ll then have to pick up and count yourself before putting it in the register. You’d bet money that she’ll have miscounted.

She pauses to rummage through the handful of coins in her other hand before finding something that isn’t a penny and adding it to the pile.

“Let’s see, that makes it…”

“Three dollars and sixty-five cents,” you inform her in a tone of voice that Marcie would scold you for if she was within earshot.

She’s constantly on your case to smile and at least pretend that you don’t hate the customers, but you can either do your job or you can fake smile, but doing both without resorting to murder is not in your wheelhouse.

“Hey, lady, can you fucking pay already! Some of us have to get back to work, here!” a guy a few people back complains.

You shake your head, anticipating her turning back to snap at him and, inevitably, losing count of where she was. He’s only hurting himself. What ALL of these people should do is bring packed lunches from home so that you never have to see them. Of course, then the café would have no customers and make no money, which would mean it would close and you’d be out of a job, so perhaps that’s not exactly the best option, but you’d be one step further away from a murder rampage, so maybe that would be good.

“Okay, so three dollars and, um –“

“Sixty-five cents,” you supply again, your eyes traveling over the growing line once more. You like to play a little game in moments like this called “Which Customer is Going to Make You Snap”.

You count five douchey frat bros who are all apt to hit on you in increasingly unappealing ways, three professors who are clearly running late for class, and a total of eight businessmen and women whose scowls are growing as their precious seconds tick by before you spot HER.

It’s stupid the way that your mood lightens instantly.

Hummus wrap with extra sprouts, three chocolate chip cookies, and a tall hot-chocolate, extra whipped cream. And one chocolate cupcake on the last Thursday of every month. You don’t know why. You glance to the calendar on the wall while the woman at the counter finally makes it to four dollars. Only thirty-five cents to go before she’s hopefully out of your hair.

Your eyes dart back to the girl. Short, bright eyes, mousy-brown hair, and an infectious smile. She’s totally wrong for you, and you’re sure you’d find her annoying as hell if you actually conversed with her, but damn is she cute. You’re pretty sure you’ve heard her friends that she sometimes comes in with call her Laura, but you’re not confident enough in that to attempt to call her that to her face.

Finally the woman counts out the last ten cents in pennies and shoves the pile of change towards you. You count it with a practiced ease that lends itself to speed, and dump it in the register, pleasantly surprised to find that she had actually managed to count out the correct amount of change. You send her on down to pick up her order and turn to the next customer: douchey frat bro number one.

“’Sup, hottie. I like the goth look. Is it true that you’re all total freaks in the sack, because I would NOT mind finding out for myself.”

“Do you want food or coffee? Because that’s all that’s being offered here.” _Or a punch to the jaw?_ you add in your head. _I can provide that, too._

He grins like you’ve just given him an invitation rather than shot him down. “Hard to get. Okay. I can dig that. I’ll take the number five on wheat and a tall coffee, black. And how about your number?”

“How about no. That’ll be $12.65.”

Douchey Frat Bro #1 pulls out a shiny silver credit card and flashes it at you as if money was the only thing holding you back from giving you his number, rather than his personality and his gender. “I’ll swipe it if you give me your number.”

“I’m gay.”

“I can dig that.”

“How about you pay, or you don’t get your food.”

He chuckles, but fortunately swipes his card. “How about I give you my number?” he suggests.

You stare at the register thinking that the receipt is not printing nearly fast enough. “Do you understand what gay means?”

“Carmilla, no flirting at the register! There’s a line!” Marcie calls out as she rushes past you.

“Well, you heard the boss,” you tell Douchey Frat Bro #1 with mock sadness. “Such a shame. Buh-bye now.”

The next four customers miraculously know their orders and don’t dawdle, but then you hit a Hmmmer.

They’re almost as bad as the people who pay in change.

“Is it organic basil used in the pesto?” she asks after three agonizing minutes where she stares blankly at the menu saying, “Hmmmm, ummmm, hang on. One sec…”

“Yes,” you lie without a second thought. Well, maybe it’s not a lie. It might be organic. You don’t know and you don’t care.

“Locally grown?”

“Of course,” you lie again.

The woman gives you a skeptical look, and you look past her to the girl again.

Laura.

You’re pretty sure it’s Laura.

You could try calling her that. See what happens. She’s alone today, so nobody would really know. You could just call it out and see if she looks at you. If she doesn’t you could pretend to wave at someone outside. No big deal.

“You know what? I’m not really in the mood for pesto,” the woman in front of you says.

“Lovely,” you mutter before catching yourself and tuning back into the thrilling saga of what on earth this woman plans on eating for lunch today.

“Maybe I should go with a salad,” she murmurs to herself, and you do your best to repress the urge to strangle her.  “It would cut down on the carbs, right?” She shoots you a grin like you’re speaking the same secret language of ridiculous diets.

“True. Gotta stay away from those evil carbs,” you reply, wondering if she knows just how much you’re mocking her.

It takes her five more minutes to settle on soup, and another two to dig through her purse to locate her wallet, because apparently she hadn’t anticipated actually needing to pay for the food she was ordering.

When Douchey Frat Bro #3 sidles up to the counter next, oozing all of the charm of Ebola, it takes all of your willpower not to threaten to cut off his dick if he doesn’t shut up and order.

Fortunately he takes a hint slightly better than the previous two, and is on his way before you completely lose your patience. You glance down the queue, which has finally stopped growing and started to shrink now that the lunch rush is almost over, and find a pair of bright eyes looking back at you.

You raise an eyebrow in surprise, and Laura (you’re really 95% sure that’s her name) looks down and bites her lower lip, a faint blush creeping over her cheeks.

You can’t help but smirk, right up until you look up into the grouchy face of Mr. If-I-Don’t-Have-My-Food-In-Two-Seconds-I’m-Suing.

He walks away muttering under his breath a minute later, and while his attitude definitely needs improvement, you at least appreciate the speed with which he’s moved out of your life.

One frazzled teacher, two douchey frat bros, and a few more businesswomen and Probably Laura is at the counter, offering a shy, but genuine smile.

“Busy today,” she says.

“Busy every day,” you reply.

“True. I’m normally a little later, though. Miss most of this. My class got cancelled today, though, and I was hungry, so…” she trails off and glances behind her. “Anyway, I’ll have –“

“Hummus wrap, extra sprouts, tall hot-chocolate with extra whipped cream, three chocolate-chip cookies?” you suggest with a smirk.

You can’t help feeling just a little pleased with yourself when the blush returns to her cheeks.

“Umm, yeah, and –“

“A chocolate cupcake. You’re cute, but you’re predictable.”

She turns a slightly darker shade of red. “I am not,” she replies, crossing her arms across her chest.

“Cute? Or Predictable?”

Okay, making her blush might be your new favorite hobby. It is far too easy, and yet really quite entertaining.

She doesn’t answer, but she does shift her weight enough that her arms crossed over her chest pull down her shirt just enough to better show off her cleavage. You don’t think she did it on purpose, but you’re definitely not complaining either way.

“Your order never changes, cutie,” you point out.

“You know, people just assume that because you’re little you’re cute or adorable, but little people can be fierce and-and…and sexy! And vicious!”

You really can’t help the smirk that crosses your face then. “Oh, I’m sure you can be all those things. You are also very definitely cute, though.”

“Flirting. Line,” Marcie says as she brushes past the other way.

Way to spoil the little fun you’ve actually had today.

“Okay, well, your total today will be –“

She cuts you off by handing you money. “Umm, here, I have exact change,” she mumbles, her cheeks flushing a dark crimson as your fingers brush.

“And I don’t even have to wait for you to count it all out for me. How refreshing,” you reply.

You count it quickly, and that’s when you see the piece of paper between a five and a ten dollar bill.

“Right, well, um, see you next time, Carmilla,” she mumbles, moving quickly towards the food pick-up area. She stumbles over her own feet and catches herself on the counter before shooting a flustered glance your way, and then facing staunchly forward, away from you, waiting for her food.

It takes you an embarrassingly long second to remember that you have a stupid nametag on, and she is not actually psychic.

“Catch you later, Cupcake!” you call after her. You’re really going to have to figure out if she IS in fact named Laura at some point.

A tired-looking, middle-aged woman is moving up to the counter as you finally examine the piece of paper.

_This is probably stupid, but my friend says they’ve seen you checking me out before and you’re kind of ridiculously attractive, so on the off chance that they’re not delusional and you are remotely interested, here’s my number._

The note is signed _Laura Hollis_. Formal. Too formal.

Maybe you’ll just stick to “Cupcake”.

 


End file.
